Writing

From my stateside post
I saw for miles and miles.
We drank all night.
Came to shift hung over.
Serving with teenagers.
Taking naps between duty gaps.

No Officer around.
Plug in your Play Station.
Serving your nation at war.
Wishing the hours away.
To transfer out.
To see what the fight is for.
For now.
Don’t ask them to move.
Don’t ask them to clean.

Some smoked weed.
Some did cocaine.
A few did crystal.
So many failed piss tests

This was not my father’s Army.
No pride.
No honor.
Just some kids without a plan.
Kids who grew up
playing first person shooters.
Many lying recruiters who filled them
with dreams of being more.
Being part of a team.
Guarantying a college degree
and a phat cash bonus for a car.

All escaping something.
Stationed alone on our hill.
Only time to kill.
No helicopters or tanks ever seen.
No war.
No battle.
Only air conditioned computer stations.
PTSD from the war we dreamed.

Never to serve in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Never to be shot at.
Never to see death.
Last to fight.
First to complain.
Laziest sacks of shit I’ve ever seen.